Kaveh
by Juliette06
Summary: When the royalty of Persia are taken by not one, but two surprise attacks, will the empire ever be the same?
1. This Means War

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Welcome to the land of chapterfics, Julie-style! Exciting, I know. A couple notes, though~ One: Piyam is an OC friend of Garsiv's (not even my OC xD He belongs solely to Anjaden, check out her chapter fic for more of him!) that has been living with them at the palace since Garsiv was a kid.**

**Also! This fic has an ensemble cast, which means that (probably) each chapter will be from a different character's point of view, unless for some reason the plot demands two chapters in a row for the same character. That being said, this is still a Tus-centric fic. Trust me. It is.**

**And guys, I'm begging you: please review. It fuels me like the Mt. Dew that makes up my bloodstream. I'll be so encouraged you'll get the next chapters in no time!  
And now I've rambled at you enough, commence with the story!**

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All day, Garsiv had had the sneaking sensation that something, somewhere, was going wrong. Call it the paranoia that came with being general of an army, call it whatever you want, Garsiv had it. In the pit of his stomach, in the back of his mind, in his dreams—or rather, the lack there of: Garsiv hadn't been able to get a good night's sleep in weeks.

But this time, there was no reason for the paranoia. They were not in war, everything had been quiet from the scouts, he and his brothers were getting along, none of his wives were pregnant…there was nothing for him to be paranoid _about_.

Then again, Garsiv supposed, that was what paranoia was. Feeling like someone was out to get you even if they weren't—

Garsiv snapped back to reality when someone was shaking his shoulder and whispering something in his ear: whatever he was saying, it must be pretty important to interrupt the royal dinner for.

"Piyam has returned, my lord," Garsiv nodded, but something gave him pause—why was this servant telling him instead of Piyam himself? Garsiv knew his oldest and best friend wasn't the type to let the servants do his bidding—he'd much rather interrupt Garsiv's dinner and make up for the months that they had been separated—probably by annoying Garsiv as much as possible.

"Where is he?" Garsiv spat, shoving himself up from the table. He followed the servant's finger, which was pointing to the hallway just outside the dining hall. Garsiv frowned in confusion—what was he doing out there?

Garsiv got his answer soon enough: his best friend was sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall, dying.

Piyam looked like he'd been badly beaten, and he had an arrow embedded in the upper portion of his left arm. There was blood soaking through, staining his dark skin an even darker red-brown, and Garsiv noticed he had to step over a trail of it that led from the door. How long had he been bleeding? A better question was: where were the people who could _fix_ him?

"Get the healers," Garsiv ordered; when the man who'd gotten him just stared stupidly, Garsiv snarled, "Get the doctors, you idiot, before I shove an arrow in _your_ arm!" and then his attention was back on Piyam, his best friend outside of the royal family—and, most days, his best friend _including_ the royal family.

"Garsiv," Piyam coughed out, his hand wrapping around Garsiv's wrist. "Garsiv, I have something to tell…"

Garsiv hesitated, knowing that speaking probably wouldn't be good for him: he sounded like he hadn't had anything to drink in days, and his eyes were red and watering from sand in them. Had he ridden through a—

"Garsiv," Piyam coughed, tightening his grip on Garsiv's wrist. "Need to…"

"Tell me, Piyam," Garsiv ordered sharply, looking down at his friend as he heard the healers running in the distance. "Quickly!"

"Slavers. Gathering on the-" Piyam was cut short by a rattling cough, so Garsiv filled in the blank automatically.

"Border," Garsiv guessed, and Piyam nodded, although the motion made him wince. "Which one?" As much as he knew his friend needed the attention of the healers, Garsiv also knew Piyam would kill him if he chose to fret about him rather than doing his duties.

"Which one, Piyam?" Garsiv barked again, making Piyam's eyes snap back open up at him.

"Northeast," Piyam grunted out. Garsiv opened his mouth to say something else, something comforting, but he couldn't find the words—dealing with the emotional side of things was much more Tus' area of expertise.

And then the healers were there, pushing Garsiv aside to get at their patient. Garsiv growled low in his throat and had to keep himself from shoving the nearest one against the wall in retaliation—which was more self-control than he usually bothered with.

Garsiv had been vaguely aware of Tus' presence next to him all night, but the two hadn't spoken beyond Tus' weak attempts at comforting him when the news first reached the Crowned Prince's ears. As such, they waited in silence for the doctors to give word on Piyam's condition, but Garsiv's mind was far from quiet. Slavers gathering on the border? That was the message that Piyam had very nearly given his life to deliver? Where were the other scouts?

Garsiv sighed. He knew the answer to that one—they were dead, likely as not.

"I need to leave after we get word," Garsiv said aloud, still staring intently at nothing in particular. When Tus didn't answer, Garsiv finally looked back at him…only to roll his eyes in exasperation. How could his brother sleep at a time like this?

Garsiv raised his hand to hit him awake, but then paused: how long had Tus been awake for? Garsiv glanced out the window. It was nearly dawn. And Garsiv knew his brother still wasn't sleeping well, so…maybe two days?

Garsiv sighed again, focusing back on the wall. Tus was not equipped to stay up for days on end like Garsiv was—yet another reason it was good that Tus was Crowned Prince instead of General.

The wooden door to the healer's quarters flew open, thudding dully against the stone wall behind it-the noise startled Tus awake, but he managed to scramble to his feet next to Garsiv as the head healer walked up to them.

Silence.

Garsiv _hated_ silence.

"Well!" Garsiv snapped, his hand finding the hilt of his sword in typical Garsiv-fashion—it apparently didn't matter that the other man was not just any healer, but the one who had information they needed. For his part, the healer did his best to seem nonplussed.

"I'll spare you the long details, Your Highness, but we think he'll make it. His wounds were not that severe after all, and-"

"You _th _-"

"Thank you," Tus interrupted, clapping his hand on Garsiv's shoulder tightly. That was what he was there for: to keep Garsiv from murdering people he didn't have to. "Can we see him?"

"He's asleep right now, but yes, you may," And then Garsiv tore away from his brother and the doctor and stormed through the doors. Let Tus get the specifics of Piyam's condition, he needed to make sure for himself, with his own two eyes, that Piyam was still breathing.

At least Garsiv had the good sense to slow himself to his near-silent prowl when he entered Piyam's room. His friend was heavily bandaged across his arm and chest, with his left leg wrapped in a starchy white cast. Looking down at Piyam, who always had that annoying smile on his face—seeing him broken and bruised troubled Garsiv, because it called for emotions he wasn't equipped to handle—concern, gentleness, softness. Garsiv would much prefer to do what he always did: leave the emotions to his brothers.

But this was Piyam (and he was unconscious), so Garsiv _supposed _he could swallow his pride just this once. Carefully, quietly, Garsiv sat down on the bed opposite him and just watched his childhood friend sleep away the pain, knowing full well that he might not get a chance to say goodbye before Garsiv himself rode out to meet the bastards that had nearly taken Piyam from him—there were the emotions Garsiv was able to understand: rage, impatience, the urge to do something violent…

Yes, he would be riding out soon enough, because nobody was allowed to attack Piyam but Garsiv himself.


	2. Storytime

**Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, but I hope that you guys will like it all the more because you had to wait! :p Remember, reviews will make Chapter Three come along like crazy-fast. ;)  


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Tus awoke the next morning to muted whispering, then a sneeze. Tus sat up and remembered as he blinked blearily—he was in the Healer's Quarters, with Garsiv and Piyam.

Piyam.

Tus quickly looked at the bed his littler brother's best friend had been set on the day before, then let out a sigh of relief in spite of himself—Piyam was awake and talking to Garsiv, which Tus had to admit impressed him a little bit—while his injuries had not been deathly serious, Tus had thought that the younger man would at least be out for a full day.

He should have known Piyam was far too stubborn for that. Shaking his head to himself, Tus tried to focus on what the two friends were saying.

Of course, as soon as he tried to listen, the both stopped talking. Typical.

"If Dastan in the Lion of Persia, you must be the Bear of Persia, for all you snore and sleep, brother," Garsiv teased by way of a greeting.

"Mm," Tus didn't feel the need to engage his brother in a verbal spitting contest of who could tease whom the most, so he turned his attention back to the wounded soldier. "How do you feel?" Tus asked. If this younger 'brother' gave any answer besides 'like shit', Tus would be concerned.

"Like shit," Piyam grunted, struggling to sit up, though he stopped moving when Garsiv glared at him, only to start again after a moment's pause.

"They said you should lie still," Garsiv growled.

"So?"

"So you should listen to them if you've got any sense in that head of yours," Tus replied, cutting Garsiv off before he could answer with a less-than-polite response—Garsiv looked like he was already more pissed off than usual, probably from the combination of staying up all night and having to simultaneously worry and strategize.

Thankfully, Piyam gave into the wills of the two princes before him, and as usual, Tus felt just a little guilty for wondering, secretly, if Piyam _did_ have any sense in his head. Just a little guilty, though—he often found himself wondering that of his brother's friend.

"So, Piyam," Tus began carefully, leaning forward on the cot he had been sleeping on. He folded his hands and fingers in front of him and took a breath—this was the pattern he repeated any time he had to talk to a particularly difficult diplomat, and apparently Garsiv knew Tus' little routine well enough to recognize it on sight.

"Oh, come off it," Garsiv said, rolling his eyes. "I already asked him all your questions." And before Tus could retort by asking how Garsiv knew _all_ his questions Garsiv explained:

"According to this sad sap here, there're at least three different tribes of slave traders gathering in the canyon that makes our northeast, with more coming," Garsiv began, only to be interrupted by Piyam at the first possible moment.

"It was a group of scouts from a completely different tribe that got to me and my men," the younger man said grimly, a frown coming to his normally cheerful face. Tus found it a touch unsettling—he wasn't used to him being serious.

"It seemed like the groups were having a sort of summit," Garsiv continued, merely shooting Piyam a dark glare rather than causing him bodily harm—perhaps a testament to how much Garsiv liked his childhood friend, since normally Garsiv would have hit anyone who interrupted him, wounded or no.

"My men are already prepared to leave," Garsiv added, Tus noticed he had already put on his armor, like he had just been waiting for Tus to wake up before he left. That was unlike him, but Tus knew it probably wasn't because Garsiv wanted to say goodbye to him—he probably just wanted to make sure someone Garsiv trusted (that is, someone who was not a doctor) was awake in case Piyam needed anything, but Tus did wonder why Garsiv had let him sleep instead of using some violent method to wake him.

"Then you should leave," Piyam joked as he shifted around to try to find a comfortable position on the bed. "What're you sticking around here for, anyway? Go find the bastards, kill a few for me."

"And me as well," Tus added, rolling his eyes in a good-natured way. He was long since over his qualms about his younger brother riding out to meet dangerous savages—Tus knew and respected that each of the brothers had their place, their own destiny to fulfill, and it was Garsiv's duty to get rid of any enemies that dared take on the Persian Empire.

No one, not even Tus, thought it might be a trap.

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**Thank you guys so much for reading, I hope you liked it! I'd really appreciate it if you would hit that pretty little Review button right there - even if it's just to say good job (or not, haha), that'd be so excellent! Thank you!**


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